


Thinking 'Bout You

by indigentsalt



Series: Channels [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigentsalt/pseuds/indigentsalt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories based on Channel Orange by Frank Ocean.</p><p>Stiles reminisces about his relationship with Derek, long after the fact.</p><p>Then Derek does something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think this was written mid-season 2, so there will be some discrepancies.

“‘Night, Ang,” says Stiles, taking a step down the porch. But Angela turns, this goofy grin on her face. She’s wobbly in her wedge heels, and tops Stiles by a solid three inches from the next step up. Normally she’s six inches shorter than him. Her hands land on his shoulders and he steps forward, steadying her.

“You’re not going to come in?” she asks. Stiles smiles, shaking his head.

“Nah. I’ve got work in the morning,” he explains. Angela pouts.

“But I finally got Twilight from Netflix, I’ve been waiting for like, months now.” Stiles raises an eyebrow and she giggles in embarrassment. “What? Robert Pattinson is like, super bangin’,” she informs him. “Don’t you want to watch it with me?” Stiles looks into Angela’s honey gold eyes, bright with hope but at the same time dulled with alcohol. He tries to think of a reason why he shouldn’t (aside from never wanting to have to suffer through Twilight.) It’s clear what Angie is doing, her inhibitions lowered from the party they attended together. Greg asked him if they came as a couple. No, Stiles said, just as friends. But maybe after spending the whole night flirting with other guys, she decided to make a move on him. And why not take her up on it? Angie is pretty ‘banging’ herself, with long black hair, caramel skin, high cheekbones and perfectly arched eyebrows. The gap in her front teeth is endearing as opposed to unattractive, and her skin is flushed red with the evening. They haven’t known each other for too long, despite both being juniors at the University of Southern California. But they’ve gotten to be pretty good friends while both working at one of the libraries over the summer.

“No thanks. I’m not really a vampire guy,” Stiles says with a shrug and a smile. Startling Stiles, Angela’s eyes sharpen and it’s clear she sees Stiles’ refusal in a completely sober light.

“So you’re a werewolf guy then?” she asks, still playing things easily, maybe trying to win him over. Stiles blinks, startled in spite of himself.

“I guess you could say that,” he answers. “‘Night Angie,” he repeats, and without waiting, turns and heads down the steps. There’s a beat and then the door slams. He knows Angela will be angry with him for a couple of days. That’s what he gets for associating with neurotic women.

Yeah, you can say he’s a werewolf fan. Or was. Stiles rubs the back of his neck and glances up at the sky, striding down the narrow street, cars parked obstinately on either side. His hands are in his pockets, and clouds blanket the sky. Pockets of stars peek through, but there’s no sign of the moon.

Stiles hasn’t been back to Beacon Hills in two years, and he’s okay with that. Sure the money is good, but why else is he going to volunteer to work the deserted USC libraries during summer session? Because he’s avoiding home. There’s not really anything for him there, anyway. Every Christmas since Stiles got his own place he’s invited his dad to have Christmas with him, ostensibly to make sure his dad actually uses his two weeks of allotted vacation time. Sometimes Stiles wonders why his dad has never asked him why he hasn’t come back to Beacon Hills. He’s glad though, because he doesn’t have a valid answer.

Stiles turns right at the bottom of the street, dodging a pair of chatty high school girls as they come towards him.

“He’s just like... Ohmygod, he has this like, bad boy aura around him!” exclaims one.

“What, like leather jacket and devil-may-care attitude?” asks the other.

“Exactly!” replies the first. “No really, he _does_ drive this sexy little black two-door coup and he really does wear a leather jacket,” she insists. The other one snorts as they turn the corner.

“What a cliché,” he hears, before they fade off behind a house. Stiles shakes his head. Yeah, really. What a cliché.

Not that Derek ever really wore ‘devil-may-care’. He didn’t pretend to care, or pretend not to care. He didn’t let anything show openly. Maybe that was why Stiles never went back after things fell apart. It was so hard being with a brick wall sometimes. Stiles wasn’t even that emotive usually, but being with Derek just... Just sucked it all out of him. It was like he was using up all his reserves to paint a pretty picture on Derek.

Stiles’ hands fist in his pockets as he thinks about it, which he tries not to too often. The distance is usually good to him, usually makes him forget. But on a night like this, when Stiles can finally see the full moon lighting up the sky as it makes its way to another patch of clouds, how can he not? He is a werewolf kind of guy. There’s no denying it.

There wasn’t any denying it, when Stiles was eighteen and stupid and lost and confused. What else are you when you’re about to leave home for the first time in your life? And when the girl you’ve always loved and the girl who’s never loved you ends all hope you could have ever had? Sometimes Stiles laughs when he thinks about high school, all those years pining over Lydia Martin. He always thought that someday, _someday_ she’d see him. Jackson broke up with her in sophomore year, and all of a sudden _someday_ was a whole lot closer. He thought maybe she’d end up bitten like Scott, drawn closer to him because they ran in the same circle. Instead, he’d been drawn closer to Derek Hale. The brilliant redhead had remained aloof until the very last. Until the look she gave Stiles when he suggested a goodbye kiss at the end of her going away party when she left for a summer program at Harvard. Stiles’ cheeks flame uncomfortably at the memory. She had never paid him enough attention to make him feel completely rejected, but it had seemed she’d wanted to make things explicitly clear before she left for the east coast. And Stiles had felt clearly, explicitly rejected.

Stiles’ foot taps impatiently as he arrives at a red light. After a moment, he sees no cars are coming and hurries across the street. He can’t be standing still. He’s got to keep moving. It’s hard to say what happened after that late June day. Stiles tried to be optimistic, that girls at college would be more receptive. Scott encouraged this. Said things like, ‘Everyone knows SoCal girls aren’t as frigid’ and ‘It’s definitely better this way, dude’. Which was well enough for him, when he was with Allison. Maybe it isn’t so hard to say what happened after: Stiles spent the summer before he left for college third wheeling with Scott and Allison. Looking back, Stiles has to admire Allison’s patience with him.

Stiles crosses another street and sees his home, a five-story split house. He is lucky enough to have the fifth floor (sarcasm), though he doesn’t mind sharing it with Roger, who also goes to USC. Roger’s a good guy, and crazy rich. It was actually sort of funny, Stiles and Allison managed some bonding during certain nights. Nights like these, when Scott was... Busy. Busy with Derek, Isaac, Erica and Boyd.

_“So you’re totally over Lydia?” Allison asked._

_“Duh,” snorted Stiles into the bottle of whiskey they took from the Sheriff’s cabinet. “She never liked me anyway. Not gonna piss away my summer mourning her when there are all these other-” Stiles hiccoughed “-babes for me to be hittin’ it up with.” It came out slurred, and Allison didn’t say anything, bless her._

_“Do you ever want to be like them?” Allison asked suddenly._

_“What is this, an interview?” Stiles retorted, immediately troubled by the question. It would be better phrased as ‘Do you ever not regret refusing the bite?’_

_“Come on Stiles,” Allison said, no amusement in her voice._

_“Do you?” he asked. He didn’t look at her face, knowing there would be a bitter expression there. It was almost a mean question to ask, after what happened to Mrs. Argent, but Allison had asked for it- literally._

_“I just want... I want it to be easier to be with Scott,” she answered finally. It was always down to Scott with her. And always down to Allison with Scott. Stiles wondered what it would be like to be in love like that._

_“Well fortunately, I don’t have to be a creepy shapeshifter to be with the one I care about,” Stiles said optimistically, and made sure that was the end of that._

It’s funny, Stiles thinks as he takes out his key and unlocks the door. Another year and he never would have said that. It started at Christmas, because Christmas does that to people.

_Stiles glanced out the window, seeing the slightly-less-than-full moon. He knew enough to be happy for certain others that Christmas Eve didn’t fall on the real full moon. Scott and Ms. McCall were spending it with the Argents and Scott had to be on his best behavior. Stiles was spending it, as usual, with his father. Stilinski Christmases were a quiet affair, but they were never unpleasant. Stiles like Christmas as much as any kid. They usually got a catered dinner, and it usually turned into an eating competition, Sheriff Stilinski apparently under the impression that Christmas was really a calendar date for allowing grown men to act like their teenage sons._

_When they had demolished all but a few lumps of breast meat from the whole roasted turkey they’d ordered (they were both dark meat guys anyway), Stiles and his dad moved to the living room to watch old Sherlock Holmes movies (the Jeremy Brett ones, though Stiles did manage to get his dad to watch Sherlock on New Years Day.) It was a Stilinski tradition. The Sheriff had even given Stiles a glass of scotch on the rocks to celebrate, and they’d opened the presents they’d gotten each other and Sheriff Stilinski had fallen asleep during ‘The Sign of Four’. Not even the loud howling noise towards the end of the film had woken him, but it made Stiles get out from under his fuzzy flannel blanket and brave the crisp Beacon Hills air to step out onto the porch. When he heard nothing, he shoved his feet properly into his sneakers and trotted out across crackling leaves into the trees._

_“Derek!” he shouted._

_The alpha could have been anywhere, but Stiles knew Derek would hear him. He was the only nutjob yelling in the middle of the woods on Christmas Eve, wasn’t he?_

_“Derek!”_

_Stiles waited a long time, and eventually he convinced himself that he’d been mistaken. Though he was pretty sure there were still no wild wolves in California. Shrugging, he returned to the house, glancing from this snoring dad to the scrolling credits. He turned the TV off, made sure his dad was tucked in, and went upstairs to his room._

_“Ah!” he yelped when he turned on the light, stumbling back and throwing his arms up. But Derek was sitting motionlessly in his desk chair. He was wearing a light t-shirt and jeans, and had left the window open. Stiles scowled. “You could at least close the window after you come in,” he muttered. “And wipe your feet,” he added, seeing the muddy tracks on his floor._

_“You called me, didn’t you?” Derek retorted. Stiles passed him and shut the window, then glanced at the grumpy looking werewolf._

_“You called first,” Stiles pointed out. Derek didn’t say anything. “Come on, you hungry? There’s some turkey and potatoes left, and some cherry pie if you like cherry pie,” he offered. Derek didn’t say anything, but he stood and followed Stiles from the room._

Stiles picks his way past the three bikes locked in the entryway. He trudges up the stairs, his hand along the creaky banister. The potheads on floor two clearly have friends over, he can hear laughing and smell marijuana. Claire in apartment three clearly has the apartment to herself (her roommate Monica goes home to Los Angeles a lot of weekends) because Stiles can hear her and her girlfriend Daniele having sex, something Stiles has gotten used to. It doesn’t weird him out anymore, or make him jealous. Usually.

He uses his other key to get into apartment five, opens his eyes wider in an effort to see past all the junk on his and Roger’s living room floor. He escapes Roger’s Xbox and a couple of jackets, but kicks one of Roger’s two hundred dollar sneakers across the room and almost trips on a plate. Roger is fast asleep with his light on and his door open, and Stiles shuts off the light to save on electricity and slips into his room, closing the door.

_The pair of them padded silently down the stairs, and when Derek was in the kitchen, Stiles shut the door behind them. He handed Derek a plate._

_“How lonely is a Derek Hale Christmas, anyway?” Stiles asked as Derek approached the turkey. He frowned._

_“White meat?” he said in lieu of an answer, and Stiles couldn’t help but smile._

_“You snooze, you lose,” he answered. When Derek glared at him, he shrugged. “Why didn’t you say you needed a place to spend Christmas?” he asked, matter-of-fact. Derek scowled._

_“I didn’t_ _need_ _anything. Christmas is just a day like any other,” he retorted sullenly, using the two-pronged fork to spear all of the remaining turkey and dump it on his plate. Stiles didn’t know what to say. For once, his sense of self-preservation was kicking in, not letting him say anything stupid. Or maybe he was preserving Derek- here, in his house, slightly less surly than usual._

_“Do you want mashed potatoes?” Stiles asked. Derek thrust out his plate in response. Stiles took it, piling on creamy lumps of white mush, pre-slathered with butter and cooked with onions. “Wanna put it in the microwave?”_

_Derek answered by taking a huge bite of turkey, using his hands. Stiles wordlessly handed him a fork._

_“What do you usually do at Christmas?” Stiles wanted to know._

_“Can you not ask so many questions?” Derek said, suddenly angry. Stiles flinched._

_“That was a question,” he pointed out, unable to help himself. Derek took a deep breath, eyes closed, and all of a sudden Stiles realized that he he was alone in his kitchen with an alpha werewolf, no Scott in sight, and clearly making him angry. Did he really have that much of a death wish? He didn’t realize his heart was pounding until Derek said softly,_

_“You’re afraid.” Stiles didn’t know what to say. He felt embarrassed, both because fear did not make him a good host and because, well, he didn’t want Derek to know that he really was scared of him. “Don’t be afraid, Stiles,” said Derek, and he sounded weary._

_“Would it mean that much to you?” Stiles asked. Derek met his eyes, suddenly, and Stiles shifted uneasily under their gaze._

_“It would mean a lot,” he answered quietly, and went back to his turkey. Stiles watched him eat, then sat on the stool beside him and watched the floor, keeping an eye on the plate from the periphery of his vision as it gradually emptied._

_“Here’s some cherry pie, since you don’t want me to ask you whether you want some,” Stiles declared when Derek had finished, and he took Derek’s plate, served him a slice and handed it back to him. “And it’s pretty obvious you want ice cream, so I won’t ask.” He took the ice cream from the freezer, face burning for some reason, and wrestled some vanilla out of the tub and onto Derek’s plate. When he could bare it no longer, he looked at Derek’s chin, not meeting his eyes. He could see the stubbled cheeks pulling and, eyes widening, looked up at the werewolf, who was smiling down at his pie, not meeting Stiles’ eyes either._

_Stiles put away the ice cream and sat down again beside Derek, who finished his pie and ice cream in record time (and the records were pretty good in the Stilinski house.)_

_“Merry Christmas,” said Stiles, watching over his shoulder as Derek put his dish in the sink, washed it and his fork thoroughly, and put them both in the drying rack._

_“Thanks for dinner, Stiles,” said Derek, sounding genuine. Stiles looked up at the Alpha, who was looking at him expectantly._

_“What?” he asked. Derek lifted his eyes and chin in the direction of the second floor, and Stiles, baffled and off-guard, immediately assumed the wrong thing. “Wha?” he repeated. Derek’s eyes narrowed._

_“I’m not going out the front door with your dad asleep on the couch,” the werewolf said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Stiles blinked, then let out a quiet ‘oh’. He made sure the turkey and potatoes were sealed up, turned off the light, and led Derek up the stairs and into his room. Derek made for the window and opened it, then turned to Stiles, who shivered in the breeze that immediately entered._

_“You’re going to catch a cold,” Stiles pointed out. Derek grinned. Then the older man held out a hand. Stiles blinked at the outstretched palm, then at Derek’s face. “What, you want me to pay you for the pleasure of your company?” he asked dubiously. Derek rolled his eyes, more than a hint of annoyance crossing his face._

_“No, you idiot,” he said, and reached forward. He skipped past Stiles’ hand and gripped his forearm comfortingly. After a beat, Stiles did the same, noting how even though Derek’s fingers were almost touching, Stiles could barely get his fingers around the broad, flat plane of wrist. It seemed more manly and at the same time more intimate than a handshake. He glanced up at Derek, who was looking at him oddly. “When do you go back to school?” he wanted to know._

_“The third,” Stiles answered. Derek nodded, then let go of Stiles’ arm. Again, Stiles was a beat late before he released Derek. Without another word, the werewolf slipped out of Stiles’ window._

Stiles enters his room, looking at the clothes, books, pens, shoes and knick-knacks strewn everywhere, like a tornado had blown through his room. He turns on a light, seeing his computer open and charging on his desk, the picture of him and Scott that Ms. McCall gave him when they graduated next to the picture of him and his parents when he was six, the lacrosse stick lying unused in the corner, the coat rack with only one of eight hooks used.

He collapses in bed, staring up at his white ceiling. Then he forces himself to get up, pull off the denim button down he was wearing, his sneakers, socks and shorts, leaving him in a t-shirt and boxers. Glancing around the room in frustration, he turns off the light and falls back again. If he listens closely, he can hear Claire (or Daniele, he’s not sure) moaning in pleasure. If he doesn’t think about it, he can be jealous. Really jealous. It’s only been a couple months since Stiles has kissed anyone, but it’s been a long time since he’s had a kiss that meant something. His eyes closing, Stiles feels a strong chin against his own jaw, the unmistakable rub of five o’ clock shadow, a wide hand on his chest, fingers splayed. After Christmas, there was spring vacation.

_“What- Derek-” Stiles spluttered, shoving back against the cement wall of Derek’s chest and staring at the werewolf in shock. He couldn’t help it and spat slightly, trying to rid this unfamiliar taste from his lips. It wasn’t bad, just unknown. His shock only deepened when he saw the hurt in Derek’s face. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Derek wasn’t supposed to care about these things. But it quickly smoothed out, the lines in his face turning angular and angry again. “No I mean I’m flattered, really, I’m just not ga-”_

_“Forget it,” Derek muttered, and turned away from Stiles._

Yeah, of course he remembers it. How can he forget how Derek feels? Derek was his first... A lot of things. He can feel Derek anytime he feels like drudging up the pain to do so, but somehow, that particular feeling just never gets old. He can feel Derek then, those strong, surprisingly short fingers working their way over his stomach, curling in the hair under his belly button, tracing the bottom of his rib cage, smoothing his sternum with such affectionate determination like he believes he can reduce the bones to dust. Stiles’ toes curl at the thought, remembering how it all started, when he came home for the summer holiday.

_“I’ve been thinking about you,” Stiles blurted out. Derek didn’t turn around though, and Stiles’ heart dropped a little into his stomach. “Don’t you think about me?” he wanted to know._

_“What’s it to you?” Derek retorted waspishly._

_“What’s it to me? It’s you. It’s you and me,” Stiles answered, stalking towards the werewolf and intending to turn him around forcefully (though how a scrawny little human like Stiles would achieve that, he didn’t know), but Derek at last swung around on his heel to meet his eyes. “Why did you k- Why did you do what you did?” Stiles demanded._

_“It’s complicated,” sighed Derek. Immediately, Stiles opened his mouth to protest- he had always loathed that answer. But something in the way Derek looked at him made him lose the will to say it._

_God, maybe it was complicated._

_“If I give you the time, can you explain it to me?” Stiles asked. Derek’s eyes went from narrowed to open in confusion._

_“I thought you weren’t gay,” Derek challenged him._

_“Are you?” Stiles asked, because suddenly, there’s something about that ‘it’s complicated’ that Stiles understood. Because maybe it was a little complicated for him too. Derek didn’t say anything, but a small smirk slowly curled the corner of his lip._

He still thinks about Derek. And yeah, he wonders if Derek still thinks about him. Maybe it’s his fault that all he can do is think about him. But things got...

Complicated.


	2. Super Rich Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written mid-season 2, so there may be some discrepancies.

There’s a UPS guy at the door to Stiles’ apartment as Stiles rolls up on his bike. He’s got a chunky package on the ground as he peers at the list of residences.

“Looking for Roger Laurel?” Stiles asks. The UPS guy blinks at him in surprise.

“Uh yeah, that you?”

“Nah, he’s my roommate. Floor five.” Stiles informs him. Roger is always getting care packages from home (from his lonely mother in Santa Monica, to be more specific, who has nothing to do without Roger to look after. Stiles thinks that after three years, she should be used to this, but it hasn’t stopped yet.) The UPS guy buzzes Roger and Stiles’ apartment, and instead of answering like a normal person, Stiles hears the living room window shutters fly open and sees Roger poke his head out.

“Forgot your key, bro?” he yells out. Stiles shakes his head and holds up his USC lanyard.

“You got a package!” he calls back, gesturing to the UPS guy, who seems on the fence between uncomfortable and amused.

“Oh!” says Roger, and disappears. As Stiles opens the door, they hear Roger open the door and bound down the stairs. When he arrives at the door in a tank top, mesh shorts, and no shoes or socks; mussed hair and absolutely reeking of weed, he beams at the UPS guy, who’s holding out his electronic sign device. “Thanks man!” he says, and scribbles out a mockery of a signature. Despite the size of the package, it’s not heavy, so Roger manages to hoist it onto one shoulder and lead the way upstairs. Stiles takes a moment to lock his bike against the banister (he definitely does not trust the guys who buy weed from Stiles’ second floor housemates, even if Roger is one of them) and follows Roger up.

“You got a visitor,” Roger tells him, and Stiles’ brows shoot up.

“A visitor? Who?”

“You know a Derek Hale?” Roger giggles. “‘Cause if not I’ve been smoking blunts and watching the Discovery Channel with a total stranger all afternoon,” Stiles’ mind rebounds around his brain for a second as he tries to process.

“He was smoking with you?” Stiles asks skeptically. One thing at a time.

“No, no, I offered, but he said no. Nice guy though.” Roger is panting as they hit the third floor, Stiles maybe intentionally slowing his climb.

“How long’s he been here?”

“He got here like... Right after you left actually.” Stiles winced. He left for his hour and a half long macroeconomics lecture two hours earlier. Stiles pauses at the fourth floor landing and peeks out the big bay window. Sure enough, Derek’s Camaro is parked a few houses down. Stiles knows he would’ve seen it if the UPS guy hadn’t distracted him. Taking a deep breath, Stiles resettles his backpack on his shoulder and reaches the fifth floor. Derek is looking atrociously comfortable on Stiles and Roger’s snatched-off-the-street couch. The fan lazily blows marijuana smell out the window.

“Stiles is here!” Roger announces as he drops the package on the floor. Derek meets Stiles’ eyes calmly, and Stiles hates that Derek can hear his heart pounding in his chest. That’s probably why a smile works its way slowly across Derek’s face.

“Heeeeeey, Derek,” he says awkwardly. Derek grins, and who taught him to do that?

“Stiles,” he says. “How was class? Roger here tells me your macro professor is a total babe.” Stiles feels himself coloring. After a month or so of tentatively optimistic uneasiness on both ends, supported by efforts to keep things almost too civil and balanced, Stiles remembers when the dynamic of their relationship really changed. It was the first time he and Derek were, well, _intimate_. His palms sweat when he recalls tasting Derek that night in Stiles’ room, and his mouth dries as he remembers the commanding feel of Derek’s hand on his head. After that, Derek easily took the lead in their relationship, with Stiles happily following. Perhaps that was why it had ended: Stiles trying to take Derek in a direction the leader refused to consider.

“She’s a sight for sore eyes,” Stiles answers, watching as Roger opens the tape on his box with his keys. Throwing open the cardboard and some packing material, he finally lifts out a large, wrapped basket filled with sweets.

“Booyah!” he says happily, and rips open the cellophane. Stiles smiles wryly at Derek, who grins again at him. Stiles’ heart jerks sideways. “Cookie?” Roger asks them earnestly, one already shoved in his mouth. He’s holding out a box of thick, chewy-looking cookies, and Stiles’ stomach growls.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he murmurs, grabbing one with M&Ms in it and passing it to Derek, who pulls out a white chocolate chunk one. Stiles drops his bag on the floor, feeling Derek’s eyes on him, and isn’t sure whether he should sit down next to the werewolf or not. “Should we uh, take a walk?” he offers. Even if they’re not going to talk about _them_ , Derek might have werewolf type news. Definitely two things that shouldn’t be discussed in front of Roger, even if he is high out of his mind. Derek gets to his feet and Stiles hears his keys jingling in his pocket. He wonders for how long Derek intended to stay.

“Sure,” Derek says. “Nice to meet you Roger,” he adds. Roger suddenly looks up from the box of chocolate covered pretzels he’s inspecting.

“Are you leaving?” he asks, and sounds inexplicably distraught. Stiles has to hide a grin.

“I’m sure I’ll see you in a little while,” Derek says, but his eyes are on Stiles. Okay, so at least a couple of hours. Stiles can’t help but feel a tiny bit excited. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that the more time he spends with Derek, the more likely they will run into the same wall that made Stiles avoid him for so long. But Derek is _here_ and at least for a little while maybe they can pretend that things aren’t... Stupid between them. Stiles tucks his own keys back into his pocket.

“See you in a bit, Roger. Be safe,” he adds, which is their little joke about Roger’s marijuana consumption. Roger smiles hugely at him.

“Yessir,” he says, biting into a chocolate covered pretzel. Stiles lets Derek precede him out the door and closes it behind him.

“He’s a character, isn’t he,” Stiles remarks, and Derek nods soberly as the begin down the steps, pace unhurried.

“Friendly,” he answers, and Stiles nods.

“Almost too much for his own good.” Derek quirks a one-sided grin, clearly having noted this himself. As they reach the third floor, Claire is locking the door to her apartment, her designer bag dangling from her shoulder. She doesn’t look like a lesbian, which was the first thing Roger said to Stiles when they caught her and Daniele making out in the stairwell. She’s wearing a low cut tank top that shows her lemon yellow bra, a high waisted miniskirt and strappy sandals. Even Stiles recognizes the Chanel logo on her sunglasses and purse.

“Hey Stiles,” she says cheerfully.

“Hey Claire,” he replies, and her eyes drift quizzically over Derek. “This is Derek, a friend of mine from home,” he says, and Claire gives Derek her warmest smile, tossing her hair over one shoulder.

“Nice to meet you, Derek,” she says.

“You too,” says Derek, before sending Stiles a look that clearly says ‘there’s only so many of your weird friends I’m going to put up with’ and Stiles knows not to push it.

“Class?” Stiles asks Claire, distracting her so that she can’t pepper Derek with questions. Claire also goes to USC with him and Roger. They didn’t meet until Stiles moved in, because Claire is a year older, but they soon began running in the same social circle. Claire shakes her head.

“John and I are going to Chinatown to that super cheap liquor store,” she says. “You know about Bree’s party tonight, right?” Claire adds, almost as an afterthought. Stiles shrugs.

“Angie’s not really talking to me,” Stiles says cryptically. Angie and Bree are roommates.

“No!” Claire exclaims, immediately going for this new gossip. “What happened after Greg’s party?” she wants to know. Stiles shakes his head at the ceiling as they step into the warm heat of the afternoon.

“Dunno,” he lies. “Anyway since Derek’s here I probably shouldn’t-”

“No, you should come!” Claire protests as they stop in front of the house (Claire is going the other way, towards the bus stop.) “You should both come,” she adds, smiling at Derek, who is not looking at her. “You and Angie can’t fight forever,” she says with a smile. Stiles smiles wryly.

“Maybe,” he says, even though there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of Stiles getting Derek to a college party. “Anyway, good luck with the liquor.”

It’s a clear dismissal, and Claire says “Thanks,” and strides confidently down the street. Stiles leads Derek in the other direction, with the park a few blocks away his vague intention. When they reach a stoplight, Stiles can’t help it anymore. “So what brings you to my neck of the woods?” he asks.

Derek’s hands are in his pockets as they cross the street. “Well I figured it’d been a while,” he points out, and Stiles, embarrassed, looks away. “You know, since you’ve been avoiding us and all.” Stiles wants to shrink inside himself, but at least Derek had the mercy to say _us_ instead of _me_. Stiles immerses himself in the blueness of the sky and whistles only a note or two before he can feel Derek’s judgement burning into the side of his head, and he stops.

“So what’s new then?” Stiles asks. His avoidance tactics deserve a C- at best, but he can’t be fussed to really pretend. He’s been pretending for a long time. 

“Nothing, to be honest.” Derek says. They are silent for a moment.

“Is Isaac making plans to come home?” Stiles asks.

“No,” Derek admits, letting out a breath. Stiles frowns. He knows this is tough for Derek. Separating from Erica and Boyd was hard enough, but living hours apart from Isaac has been rough too. He remembers trying to fight with Isaac for Derek’s time that first summer home. That first summer, and only summer, when they were together. It took him a while to understand why they needed to spend so much time together.

“Well, he’s still got another two years,” he offers.

“It’s not that,” Derek replies. “He’s trying to get me to move up there.” ‘Up there’ is Santa Cruz, where Isaac is at school. Stiles’ brows shoot up.

“Would you go?” he asks immediately, and the scowl Derek gives him is obvious in its meaning: that he would already be there if he would. Stiles sighs. “Well I suppose it’s not like he’s got anything left for him in Beacon Hills,” he muses, thinking aloud. A growl issues from Derek’s throat. “Aside from your glorious self.”

“It’s too... _Nice_ in Santa Cruz,” Derek grumbles grouchily, and Stiles grins.

“Only you would be loathe to the sun and the sand, sour wolf,” he remarks cheerfully. Derek shoves Stiles. He is dizzy with Derek’s playfulness.

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” he says threateningly, and Stiles does know, but he forgot. That’s how long it’s been.

“When was the last time you saw Isaac?” he asks, changing the subject smoothly. It’s the easiest way to get out from under Derek’s perpetual crankiness, and even though Derek is always wise to this maneuver, he lets it slide.

“I drove him up two weeks ago.” he answers. Isaac has been living with Derek since his sophomore year of high school. Derek is more father to him than anything. You know, aside from the weird pack stuff.

“How’s he doing?”

“Well,” says Derek, but there’s something bitter in the way he says it. Stiles looks at him sidelong.

“Too well.” Derek sighs and Stiles pulls open the waist-high iron gate to the tiny park. It’s more of a dog run than anything. _At least Derek will feel at home_ , he thinks to himself with a silent laugh. “He likes it there,” Stiles infers, and Derek nods. “And doesn’t want to leave.” Derek doesn’t say anything as they sit down on a bench. “And he has opportunities. And friends.” Derek stares stonily at the ground, and Stiles clicks his fingers to a dachsund that’s examining them warily. Its owner is tapping away on an iPhone on another bench. “And so all he’s missing is you.”

Derek lets out a noise of exhaustion and Stiles frowns sympathetically.

“Maybe it would be good for you to get out of Beacon Hills,” Stiles offers as the dachsund trots closer. Derek’s snort is half growl and the dachsund turns tail and flees, whimpering. Stiles puts up his hands. “Just a thought! I mean, it’s not like there’s anything left for you there either!” he points out, annoyed. Derek doesn’t say anything, but Stiles can tell from the corner of his eye that Derek’s face is contorted in controlled anger and he is fuming.

“Only my entire history,” he retorts acidly. Stiles bites back a harsh reply. This was part of it. This was part of why being with Derek was so difficult. He can’t devote himself to the present or even consider the future. He’s stuck in the past. Stiles isn’t one to call people out on their faults, but really. Since he can’t say what he feels, he falls silent, though this makes him doubly uncomfortable. He fidgets, and crosses his legs tailor-style on the bench, his knee brushing Derek’s thigh. Even though he pretends not to notice, he can see Derek’s eyes fixated on his own leg. He sniffs, takes a deep breath, hums a little, looks concentratedly away from the werewolf.

Finally, Derek says, “Stiles,” and Stiles blows out a long breath.

“Have you considered expanding your pack?” he wants to know. Derek doesn’t say anything at first.

“Why would I?” At this, Stiles turns to him in shock, brow creased.

“Why would... Jeez, Derek, it’s only your nature and your first and most important instinct.”

Derek shrugs and Stiles is put off by his nonchalance. Although Scott was a classic case of fighting with his werewolf instincts, always trying to put his human ones first, Derek was never like that. He isn’t like that. He is wolf, born and bred. “It’s not like we need to protect ourselves,” he says quietly.

“Anything could happen,” Stiles reminds him, just as softly. There were hunters, rival packs, greedy alphas.

“But we’re not strong enough to be a threat to anyone. And it’s not like our territory is prime real estate.”

Stiles thinks about this. “Has Isaac run into any others in Santa Cruz?” he asks. Derek nods.

“It’s funny in these college towns though,” Derek admits, cracking his knuckles distractedly. “While many of us stay close for school, it’s not unusual for a few to take the more... Human route.” When Derek doesn’t continue, Stiles prompts him.

“So there are other...” He’s not sure what to call Isaac. Clearly he’s neither an alpha or an omega, but betas aren’t... They aren’t alone. They’re always part of something bigger. “Other solitary betas?” Derek nods.

“He says there’s at least two others on campus, but one belongs to the Santa Cruz pack.” The alpha stretches his arm along the back of the bench and Stiles shifts, unashamed of his obviousness, so that his back is touching Derek’s arm. It’s not an embrace, but Stiles nostalgically enjoys the warm touch. “In his freshman year he got an invitation to meet with the alpha there. He says they’re nice about it, but he has to tell them when he comes and goes.” Derek sounds annoyed about this.

“And when you come and go,” Stiles guesses. Derek nods.

“It’s common courtesy,” he shrugs, but Stiles knows that Derek dislikes being in another pack’s territory.

“Did you have to talk to anyone about coming here?” he inquires curiously. Derek shakes his head.

“There’s more than one pack in LA, and I don’t know either of them. If they find me I’ll have to explain why I’m here and give them notice if I come back.” Stiles considers this. _If he comes back_. It sounds like the beginning of something, their very own _once upon a time_. Stiles looks at his knees, then looks at Derek. It takes him a moment, but soon Derek meets Stiles’ eyes with that tabula rasa face of his. Stiles is fully aware that they are halfway into an embrace already and wishes that the lady with the dachsund would beat it so he could do something regrettable and questionable. Stiles lives for bad decisions.

Maybe Derek can read his thoughts, because he smiles slowly and looks away from the younger man in a clear rejection. Stiles purses his lips too and looks back at his knees.

“Which I don’t really see myself doing,” he adds belatedly, like they didn’t have that little moment. Stiles clenches his teeth. It isn’t like Derek Hale has never shown vindictiveness, but this is a lot by anyone’s standards.

Stiles asked why Derek came back, but didn’t get an answer. The more he thinks about it, the more baffled he is by Derek’s sudden appearance, turning up out of the blue like an Adele song. Because it’s not like things ended on good terms for them. They were arguing for a while before it happened.

_“You couldn’t have called? You couldn’t have texted me? God, Derek, I was losing it for a while there! With Isaac gone it was like- like anything could’ve happened to you!” Stiles’ face was warped with a decomposing fear._

_“Please, Stiles, you think I can’t handle myself? You should be worried if you_ can _find Isaac,” Derek scoffed, turning on the faucet with his wrist and washing his filthy hands._

_“You still could have told me,” Stiles pointed out quietly. Derek shrugged._

_“It was a spur of the moment thing.” He answered, as if that excused it. It took all of thirty seconds to type ‘going to the woods for a two-day jaunt with the pack don’t wait up’, right? Stiles couldn’t believe how relaxed Derek was being about it._

_“One text,” Stiles insisted. Derek slammed the knob the other way, the water turning off, and he turned to glare at Stiles._

_“So I didn’t tell you where I went. Damn it, Stiles, you act like I’m some child who needs a mother!” Derek said angrily._

_“Jesus, Derek, I know you don’t need a mother. You don’t fucking need anyone! And that’s why you can’t understand that I_ need _you and that I care about you and when someone cares about you you don’t just disappear without telling them you’re disappearing!” Stiles shouted. “I was worried sick!” He added, some of the residual panic leaking out in his voice. All he wanted was for Derek to see where he was coming from. Yeah, he knew this was a classic argument between couples. And honestly, he didn’t care what Derek did or with whom or where. He just wanted to be sure Derek was safe. Hunters had shown up once before, unannounced, in Beacon Hills, and more could easily do it again._

_Derek sighed in disgust and Stiles felt his chest tighten uncomfortably. He looked at the ground, hating how inferior he was feeling. “Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Derek’s voice was exasperated. “It won’t happen again.” His tone softened to something more conciliatory, and Stiles saw his feet step into his line of vision. He looked up slowly, and Derek was pulling off the grimy, ripped white shirt he was wearing. He smelled like pine needles and wet dirt and cold and even as much as Stiles hated the wild in Derek, he couldn’t get enough of it. Derek put one clean hand on Stiles’ neck, lining his thumb against Stiles’ jaw and tilting Stiles’ face to his. “I promise.”_

_Stiles turned his head away, unwilling to let Derek see the wretched mixture of anxious hope and disbelief cross his face. Derek, undeterred, slid both hands down to Stiles’ sides, holding him firmly, resting his forehead against Stiles’ own. Reluctant but desperate, Stiles pressed himself into Derek as well, needing reassurance but hating himself for giving in so easily. It was just another battle in a war that he was losing so badly, a war that had made so many casualties of the feelings Stiles had for Derek that he sometimes felt like retreating to nurse his wounds, alone._

_“You reek,” Stiles whispered, his fingers digging into Derek’s sweaty back. Finally, Derek let out a slight laugh._

_“I thought you liked nature smell,” Derek murmured, his hands sliding up under Stiles’ black t-shirt. Stiles shivered involuntarily. “Come on,” the werewolf whispered, pulling away and taking Stiles by the arm, leading him towards the steps and the bathroom and their clothes were on the floor and as Stiles attempted single-mindedly to scrub the mistake and the nonchalance and the aloofness from Derek’s skin with a pink loofah, Derek distracted him with expert hands that left Stiles trembling against the shower wall ten minutes later, too overtired to pursue the issue further._

Stiles is confused. Why would Derek come to visit him if he doesn’t want him back? Why does Stiles feel all of these leftover wisps of affection for Derek when _Stiles_ was the one that ended it? Is Derek hiding something? Stiles shakes his head to himself, making a face. Maybe it’s time to make a stand.

“How long were you planning to stay?” Stiles asks him.

“Why?” Derek asks immediately. Stiles shrugs. Typical of him to throw another question back instead of a proper answer.

“I was thinking about going to that party tonight.” He pauses, considering his options. “I mean, you’re welcome to come, but I don’t really think it’s your... Your kind of crowd,” he supplies. He knows this will make Derek feel more uncomfortable. The antisocial werewolf is more likely to bolt than go, and since clearly he’s only come to torture Stiles, that’s a best case scenario isn’t it?

“Why not?” Derek wants to know, and Stiles glances at him sidelong, then shrugs. He doesn’t remember reaching into his pocket but there’s a pen in his hand now and he occupies himself popping the cap off and replacing it.

“They’re mostly from around here,” Stiles says. “Rich. Like, super rich. They’re used to getting away with everything, so they keep trying to, even when it involves others.” He can feel Derek’s gaze boring into his cheek. “So you know, lots of drinking, lots of drugs, lots of sex...” Derek doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then he asks, “Who’s Angie?”

Stiles sighs. “A friend,” he mutters, really unwilling to go into this with Derek of all people. Derek reaches out and takes the pen from Stiles’ hands, which clench in its absence.

“Do you like her?” Derek asks.

“Who are you, my dad?”

“What happened after Greg’s party?” Stiles didn’t realize how much attention Derek was paying to his conversation with Claire.

“I told her I didn’t want to have sex with her,” he says waspishly and tries to grab for his pen, but Derek snatches it out of his reach. Stupid werewolf reflexes.

“Why not?” Derek’s voice is irritatingly calm.

“None of your business,” Stiles retorts. “Gimme my pen.”

“Say please,” says Derek with a grin.

“Please sir, can I have my pen back?” Stiles asks pitifully, batting his lashes up at the werewolf. Derek laughs and hands Stiles back his pen. When Stiles looks at it, he realizes Derek still has the cap. He sighs and gives up, pocketing it. What are these mindgames that they’re playing? What does Derek _want_ from him?

“Candy, come,” and Stiles jumps at the unfamiliar voice. The dachsund lady is whistling for her dog, which has apparently snuck behind Derek and Stiles’ bench while they weren’t paying attention. The dog trots out from under his legs and the pair leaves.

“Derek why did you come?” Stiles asks softly. Derek meets Stiles’ eyes for a moment, then looks away. Fed up, Stiles reaches out and grabs Derek’s chin, forcing him to look back. “No. Tell me. I know things aren’t perfect between us, and they aren’t even really good, and they sure as hell aren’t _easy_ but this isn’t fun and it isn’t fair. So just tell me.” Derek pushes his hand away impatiently, but the sheer veil of anxiety on his face makes it clear to Stiles that he will tell him, once he finds a way to put it without hurting his dignity.

_Stiles padded around his room almost aimlessly, moving from his suitcase to his shelves and forgetting what he went for. He messily refolded a couple sweaters, furiously avoiding looking at the window. He knew Derek was going to come. Derek had to come. How could Derek not come? It was what he had been thinking all night._

_After all, it was Stiles’ last night in Beacon Hills, and they’d gotten in a fight the week before. More of the same. Derek’s obsession with his deceased family (and Stiles understood, really. He’d lost his mother too. He’d lived in the mist of her memory for years after she’d passed away. But what Derek was doing was unhealthy.) His avoidance of arguments, like changing the subject could just erase a feeling. Stiles’ meddling, his supposed interventions, his criticism, his unfailing belief that he was right. So maybe some of it was his fault too, but the only thing he really felt guilty about was telling Derek he loved him. It had kind of slipped out. And when Derek had just stared at him, Stiles had fled the Hale house._

_Derek hadn’t followed him. They hadn’t even seen each other since that night. Hadn’t seen each other, hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t decided what they were going to do when Stiles left..._

_Stiles’ watch beeped 12:30 in the morning and as if on cue, he heard boots on his windowsill. Stiles turned slowly, trembling hands full of sweaters. Derek slid smoothly into a sitting position and he stared at Stiles for a moment._

_“Come here,” he said. Stiles hesitated. He wanted to but... Were they going to just pass over this like before? Was he just going to try to kiss Stiles into forgetting so he’d go off to college in a Derek-scented haze? “Come here,” he repeated, more sternly, and he held out his hand a few inches from his chest, palm up. Stiles was shocked by the gesture. Derek’s body language so rarely indicated openness. Stiles’ resistance shivered and shattered. Putting the sweaters down, he crept into Derek’s hold like a scared dog, burying his eyes in Derek’s collarbone. Derek wrapped his arms tightly around him._

_It was so dumb, the way that an embrace solved nothing but made you feel like everything was fixed. It was ridiculous how safe, comforted, balanced Stiles felt in Derek’s arms, but how he knew, really knew, that beyond the warm touch everything was still broken, jagged and strained. It was so underhandedly devious and just plain_ deceitful _how false the security of Derek’s hold was._

_“When are you leaving?” Derek asked, the rough pads of his fingers charting the forgotten territory of Stiles’ upper body._

_“Tomorrow morning,” Stiles replied. “6 o’ clock.”_

_“I’ll stay with you,” Derek assured him, his hand ghosting over the back of Stiles’ neck in a proprietary, protective gesture. Stiles knew he should be happy to hear it. He knew this was exactly what he should want: his last night at home with his not-a-boyfriend-just-a-someone. But he couldn’t be happy about it, even if he did want it. Was Derek really going to pretend like nothing had happened?_

_“What are we going to do?” Stiles asked, unable to look at him. He had turned in Derek’s hold so that his shoulder rested against Derek’s chest, his forehead under Derek’s jaw, one hand tentatively grazing Derek’s forearm._

_“Well we have options,” Derek remarked and Stiles heard the smirk in his voice as one of his hands slipped into the back pocket of Stiles’ jeans. In spite of himself, Stiles smiled. Derek could be so... So playful, so eagerly exploratory sometimes, and Stiles loved that. But he schooled himself._

_“I’m not talking about tonight.” Derek stiffened. “I’m talking about tomorrow morning, when I leave. What are we going to do?” Derek mulled it over for a moment, and Stiles felt like his heart was thumping as irregularly as a toddler on a drum kit. By then he was used to the sense of knowing that Derek knew (or could guess) how he was feeling. At first it had been very off-putting, and he’d tried to control it, but that was the point- you couldn’t control your heart._

_“You tell me,” Derek murmured, his roving hand slipping up the back of Stiles’ shirt._

_“I already told you what I thought,” Stiles replied, more acidly than he’d meant to. “As I recall, you had no reply.”_

_“And as_ I _recall, you ran away,” Derek grumbled._

_“You didn’t stop me!” Stiles said angrily._

_“Oh don’t be a child, Stiles,” Derek said, exasperated, and Stiles bit his lip in anger._

_“Don’t avoid the subject! I told you how I felt and fair is fair!”_

_Derek was silent for too long, and at last, Stiles pulled himself away from the werewolf’s hold. His hands hanging at his sides, he stared at Derek unabashedly, letting the bewilderment and hurt fill his face. To his satisfaction, Derek turned away._

_“Fuck,” Stiles muttered, and turned away as well. “Then go. Just go.”_

_“Stiles, it’s just-”_

_“No. I said go. You’ve made it clear that I don’t mean shit to you,” he blurted out, hoping the words would make Derek feel as awful as he felt. “So no matter what you mean to me, I guess- I mean, whatever. It’s over.”_

_“Stiles don’t do this,” Derek began._

_“Derek, shut up,” Stiles exploded, his unhappiness turning swiftly and easily to anger. God, he was going to be one of_ those _ex-boyfriends, wasn’t he? Good thing he was leaving for LA. “I don’t want to hear any more of your fucking lies.” Stiles made the mistake of looking at Derek, just as anger distorted his features from human to wolf._

_“I didn’t lie to you Stiles,” he growled, apparently more offended by Stiles’ mistrust of him than by anything else. He waited, but Stiles just looked away again, folding his arms. Without another word, Derek jumped from the window, the grass crackling beneath him as he bounded away._

Derek stands suddenly, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Did you miss me?” he blurts out, and Stiles gazes at him with unconcealed wonder. He supposes this is what he always wanted: Derek to let down his tough-wolf front and show that he cared, even an inkling, about him. “Ever?”

“Sure,” says Stiles casually. He’ll admit to this, but not to the _way_ he missed Derek. Not to the nights he spent sweating in his hot, lonely bed, wishing some creepy ass wolfman would climb through his window. Not to the times he jerked off to thoughts of Derek and those nimble hands of his. Not to the months he spent regretting his impromptu separation from him, or to the realization that he had almost every right to demand what he demanded from him, or to the realization that he, too, was at fault in the whole mess. But yeah, he missed Derek.

Derek is scrutinizing him, as if if he stares at Stiles long enough he will be able to read Stiles’ thoughts.

“You talked about expanding my pack.” Stiles waits for Derek to go on, but he doesn’t.

“And?” he presses impatiently, and Derek’s look makes it clear he should watch his tone.

“That’s not something done lightly,” he sighs. Stiles snorts.

“Which was totally how you saw it when I was sixteen,” he remarks casually. Derek glares at him.

“I see you’ve remembered how much I like being told my mistakes over and over again,” he says waspishly. Stiles grins.

“So you’ve learned your lesson,” he says with a shrug, and Derek relaxes, seeing that Stiles gets it. “So what’s your point?”

“I’ve learned my lesson,” he agrees. “And right now I’m in no position to expand a pack,” Derek admits, and this makes Stiles raise his brows.

“Why do you say that? You’ve got a sweet territory and a loyal, experienced beta. What else do you need?” Derek studies him, and at once Stiles narrows his eyes, catching on. “Don’t give me some Twilight shit about a life-long mate or something,” he begins at once. He’s flattered, sure, but he’s only twenty one! He definitely doesn’t want to settle down and raise Derek’s werebabies or whatever the birds and the bees and the wolves are. (The thought of being in a long-term committed relationship to Derek also terrifies him, and it terrifies him how much he might actually _want_ something like that.) Derek scowls, and doesn’t say anything. Stiles’ heart feels like it’s just eaten itself, because clearly Derek was heading in that direction. The terror multiplies, making his fingers tremble.

The werewolf turns around, shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks away from Stiles. “I know you know a lot about wolves.” Derek says, and if Stiles weren’t so rattled, he would say something sarcastic in response.

“And?” is all he manages.

“So what do you know about wolf mating habits?”

“They’re monogamous,” Stiles blurts out. So sue him if he looked it up when he and Derek first consummated their whatever it was. Derek turns to look at him, and Stiles pales. “I’m... I’m it?” he asks quietly. “It’s me?” Derek just stares at him in that way he does. “How can you know? Look, I can’t- I’m a _guy_ -”

“It hasn’t stopped us before,” Derek remarks in a meaningful tone just _loaded_ with memories of touches and smells and tastes. Stiles swallows dryly.

“But I can’t like... Produce puppies,” he manages, his voice cracking atrociously. Derek laughs at this, and somehow, it relieves Stiles of some of his tension.

“You of all people should know that werewolf packs don’t exactly work in the normal sense,” Derek says with a shrug. “We don’t need to reproduce when the bite is an option. Some packs are exclusively breeders. Others consider it inbreeding and prefer biting.” His hazel eyes are serious. Stiles feels faint, like some swooning lady in a Jane Austen novel.

“So... So how do you know it’s me?” he asks again. Derek shakes his head.

“I don’t.” He thinks for a moment. “So don’t worry, it isn’t ‘some Twilight shit’. This isn’t like a soulmate thing. But...”

He pauses, and Stiles can’t even breath. Derek gets a semi-pained look on his face and Stiles is about to go into apoplectic shock, but Derek’s face smooths out, and he sits down again on the bench, looking intently at Stiles.

“But I care about you. You could be the one for me.” He actually _chuckles_ , and Stiles thinks somebody must have taken Polyjuice Potion with a couple of Hale hairs in it because _what the fuck_. “Wolves are monogamous, but so are humans, Stiles. Don’t think of this as a wolf thing. Think of it as two...” he hesitates, reaching out, touching Stiles’ cheek gently. “Two guys who just... Who maybe will spend the rest of their lives together, who maybe won’t. Nobody knows who they’ll marry the moment they see them.” Stiles swallows hard. It’s always been so hard to separate human Derek from wolf Derek. But here Derek is, making the distinction. This is human. This search for... For real love is not lupine.

This is a lot to take in.

“So.” Stiles says, looking down. Derek tilts his head back up, forcing their eyes to meet.

“So I’m asking you, Stilinski, if you will be kind enough to take me back,” he murmurs, searching Stiles’ gaze mercilessly. Stiles’ heart pounds.

“Um I mean it’s kind of a... Well the distance is a bit of an issue,” he babbles, trying to avoid looking straight at Derek, but Derek is looming in his sight and he can’t. Derek just stares at him. “Well I guess maybe not for you because of Isaac but I don’t know Derek it’s just a little complicated I guess-”

“You sound like you’re avoiding it,” Derek remarks.

“Oh well clearly,” Stiles replies, rolling his eyes, and Derek finally lets go of his face, and Stiles looks away.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” Derek murmurs. “So you have until the morning to decide.” Stiles nods faintly.

This _should_ be what he wants. He knows he hasn’t felt about anyone at college the way he felt about Derek. So why should he avoid it?

There were just... So many problems. Nothing got resolved. All of a sudden, Derek is kissing him, warmly, wetly, right there in the dog run. A large hand touches his knee chastely, and Derek’s stubble rubs against his chin. Taken by surprise, eyes open, he stares at Derek even as his mouth reacts instinctively. As soon as he tries to respond though, Derek pulls away.

He punches Derek in the shoulder, or tries to, because Derek grabs his fist reflexively.

“You dick,” he mumbles, and instead of laughing, Derek just grips Stiles’ fisted hand tighter and presses his nose to Stiles’ clavicle, snuffling slightly.

\------

“You got me in trouble with Angie!” Stiles accuses. Derek shrugs.

“I thought you were already in trouble with her,” he says. Stiles sighs.

“Yeah but now she’s not going to talk to me for _ever_.”

“I thought Claire invited me,” he points out. Stiles shakes his head.

“Yeah but...” he shakes his head. “It’s Angie.” Derek quirks a one-sided smile, and Stiles knows exactly what he’s thinking (why bother then, if she’ll just be like this) and hates him for it. Angie fled a moment ago, without even speaking to Stiles. Just seeing him standing in the corner of her home with Derek was clearly enough to make her angry, and she departed instantly for the kitchen. Stiles feels bad because this is _her_ house after all, and he only got a second hand invitation. Derek traces a finger up Stiles’ spine, way too casually, and Stiles jerks and slaps his hand away, or tries to, but Derek’s too quick for him. His face is schooled and Stiles scowls.

“You can’t just...” he begins, but he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. What, seduce his way back into Stiles’ good graces? Derek raises a brow.

“I can’t what?” he challenges.

“You know...” Stiles mutters. He glances around, then touches Derek’s abdomen. “ _This_ ,” he says, and removes his hand, “was never the problem.” He reminds Derek. Derek examines him for a moment.

“So?” he asks. Stiles doesn’t say anything, looking around. They are partially yelling because Bree is blasting her favorite dubstep crap. There are two games of beer pong going on, and a few of Bree and Angie’s friends are dancing in the corner. Claire has got her hand up Daniele’s skirt. He takes a step away, no direction in mind, but when Derek’s presence clings to him like his own shadow, he knows there’s no getting away.

Away from Derek, that is. Away from these super rich kids, maybe. Stiles moves towards the front door and the two of them manage to slip out without being noticed. Instead of making for the outside door, Stiles climbs the steps that lead to the other apartments in Bree and Angie’s house. Derek doesn’t say anything as the pair of them pass the third and fourth floors, only to reach a door that’s hanging halfway open and wafting in a weedy breeze. Stiles pushes it open and there are three guys sharing a bowl on one corner, seated on the foot-high wall that surrounds the rooftop. One of them squints up at Stiles and then waves in recognition. It’s Andrew, who’s taken the same Spanish class as Stiles every semester since freshman year. Stiles waves back but it’s Andrew’s turn to inhale, so he turns his attention away. Stiles doesn’t know the two other guys.

Stiles moves towards the other side of the roof, looking west towards the city. It’s the end of the day. The sun still owns a slim share of the horizon, but the sky is navy now, and the lights of the skyscrapers are beginning to outglow the stars. He moves them behind the little shed that shields the stairs to the roof because he catches Derek rubbing his sensitive nose against the cannabis smoke.

Stiles plants his foot on the wall, leaning forward experimentally, looking out over his adopted city. Derek stands beside him, feet sturdily planted apart, arms crossed over his chest.

“So what about all of our problems?” Stiles asks, not looking at Derek.

“What problems?”

“You know. The reasons we bro... You know, in the first place.”

“I thought it was because you were leaving for school. And never came back.”

Stiles doesn’t reply for a moment. “You’re deflecting.”

Derek lets out an angry snort. “So tell me why you didn’t come back,” he demands. Suddenly, Stiles feels a pressure in his chest, like his ribs are trying to connect in their normal fashion but a big lump of putty is preventing them from doing so.

“Because it hurt,” Stiles says quietly, and this is half realization for him as well. “Because I thought I never meant as much to you as you did to me, and trying to hold on to something that’s pulling away takes a lot out of you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have tried so hard to hold on,” Derek remarks quietly. At this, Stiles turns and looks at him, bafflement sketched into his expression.

“So do you want me to take you back or not?” Stiles asks him. Derek smiles ruefully, and Stiles frowns.

“I think the key word here is ‘holding on’,” Derek begins. “We...” He pauses to think, and Stiles gets a full thump of the meaning of the word we: werewolves. His kind. “We don’t take kindly to being ‘held on’ to. Wolves are part of a pack because it fulfills us. Because it’s natural. Sure, alphas force betas to submit, but that doesn’t mean a beta can’t leave and turn omega whenever he wants.” Derek searches him. “Do you understand the difference?”

It begins to make sense to Stiles, who has to think this over. He straightens and steps himself onto the wall, thrusting his hands into his pockets and staring out over the sloping hill that leads towards the city.

The links in the chain begin to connect, and all of a sudden, Stiles is filled with a strange warmth. Derek returned to him because Stiles makes him feel more complete. Being with him is natural. It sounds a little goofy, it does sound a little ‘Twilight shit’ to be perfectly honest, but... But whoever said warmth was so bad?

Stiles realizes that maybe pack dynamic isn’t exactly the same thing as what he and Derek share, but Derek must be making his point for a reason. He hesitates.

“But it’s hard. It’s hard not to hold on,” Stiles offers, almost cringing as he does. Derek wraps a firm hand around Stiles’ forearm, and that same warmth spreads up through his muscles. He turns to look at Derek, who is staring up at him.

“It’s hard not to run,” he replies softly. “Come down from there,” he adds, and Stiles is afraid Derek will change the subject if Stiles argues, so he does as told. He turns carefully on the ledge and Derek holds his arms out. Surprised, Stiles jumps to the roof and Derek’s cuffs him on the head.

“Hey!” Stiles objects, but he is touched that Derek was worried about him.

Derek continues as if nothing had happened. “We have different instincts, Stiles. If we want to make this work, we’ll always have to fight against some of them.”

Stiles stares at Derek. “But...” This goes against everything Stiles has learned about werewolves and wolves. Instinct is everything to them. Going against it for another individual? That’s not how evolution _works_. “You can’t... _Deny_ yourself for me,” Stiles blurts out, feeling stupid as he says it. Who is he, Nora Roberts? Derek shakes his head.

“It’s not denial. It’s choosing who to be around you,” he corrects. “And it’s you choosing to remember who _I_ am.” He adds pointedly. Stiles tries to retain some skepticism.

“What if we can’t? What if it happens again?” Derek look frustrated, and turns away again for a moment. Stiles is used to this and waits, hands dangling at his sides.

“I suppose... I never realized how you felt.” Derek admits when he finally faces Stiles again, and Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up. “About these kinds of things.” He adds. “So I’m...” Stiles’ heartbeat thumps loudly; even he thinks he can hear it. He is almost relieved though when Derek doesn’t manage to get out the apology. It would be too out of character. “I promise. I promise it won’t happen again. And if it does...” He trails off.

“Then that’s that,” Stiles says decisively. Derek nods. It’s as much of an assurance as Stiles will ever get from Derek Hale. But trust had never been issue with them. So Stiles is willing (and maybe even happy) to trust him on that promise.

“You live so far from here though,” and he can’t help sounding plaintive, but it is a problem. Derek shrugs. “But you’ll be commuting to see Isaac,” he adds. Derek shrugs again, and he’s got this look on his face like he’s got it all figured out already. Stiles frowns for a moment, and then he realizes that Isaac will understand this. Isaac has been waiting for this too. Maybe Isaac even _made_ Derek do this. Derek will shuttle between Isaac and Stiles like it’s a natural thing to do.

“This is ridiculous,” Stiles remarks, and it’s to this that Derek takes offense.

“You think? Me prostrating myself in front of you, begging you to take me back?” he retorts, and Stiles lets out a startled laugh because _this_ is the Derek he knows. 

Maybe he doesn’t need as many _I care about you_ reassurances as he thought he did. Maybe he just needs Derek to be Derek. Derek lays his hand on Stiles’ neck, and suddenly they’re quite close. Stiles’ heart kickstarts again; Derek’s thighs press against his.

“I dunno, I think-” Stiles starts, but Derek interrupts.

“Shut your mouth,” he admonishes, and Stiles knows what Bella Swan feels like because _man_ does the ensuing kiss make him see sparkles. This time Derek doesn’t pull away when Stiles responds hungrily, remembering how this used to feel, what it used to lead to. His long fingers wrap around Derek’s forearms.

They finally break their kiss when Derek hears the guys around the corner getting up, dropping their supplies back into a bag. Stiles’ lips feels numb, but he smiles as Derek turns to stare out over the hill and the city.


End file.
